


Soaring Higher and Higher

by wtvoc



Series: the Continuing Adventures of Captain Hook and Ichabod Crane [2]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV), Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: captain crane - Freeform, ouat/sleepy hollow crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2014-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-19 22:57:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2405978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wtvoc/pseuds/wtvoc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Ichabod is finally able to figure out his voice mail, he gets a message from his new friend Killian Jones, informing him that they are "hanging out" Saturday next. Where does one take a 300-year-old pirate? Well, the Sleepy Hollow Fall Festival is underway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soaring Higher and Higher

"Blast this accursed machine."

"Problem there, Crane?" The lieutenant's dry tone right at his elbow near startled him, but Ichabod managed to maintain his composure despite the consternation he often felt whenever Miss Mills surprised him with her proximity and sparkling gaze. Her ability to come upon him without making a sound never failed to impress, and, as ever, he swallowed the comment that she would have made an admirable addition to General Washington's trusted circle of spies. No need to inflate the Lieutenant's ego overmuch. He thought he did that with looks and expressions enough that words were rendered unnecessary.

"Nothing, Lieutenant," he said stiffly, attempting to darken the screen of his cellular telephone device, but to his chagrin found he could not. The lieutenant sidled up to him, leaning into his arm to peer at the sleek, irritating "phone." He sensed her chin brushing the wool of his coat, could discern the slight pressure of her form briefly press into his side. Then he felt rather than heard a suppressed chuckle tug at her small form even as she attempted to not mock him with her words.

"Did you accidentally download Jason Derulo again?"

"I still blame that pirate for its presence in my musical library," he replied somewhat sardonically. It was true, at any rate, and he knew his new friend would gracefully (gleefully) take it as a compliment. Ichabod had merely been searching for the song at the pirate's behest; he had been so startled by the lyrics that before he knew it, he was enjoying the rather dubious distinction of owning music dedicated to the objectification of women in the most vulgar of terms. "Delightful terms," Jones had added helpfully.

When he called to voice his outrage over the bit of what he knew to be purposeful flummery, the pirate had laughed raucously, calling out an aside to his lady sheriff. "Oi, Swan! Crane loved 'Talk Dirty' so much that he purchased it! No, I did _not_ trick him, what do you take me for?"

Somehow, that nasty bit aside, the two of them embarked on a cellular correspondence which, while lacking the elegance and comfort of penned letters, had a satisfying sort of satiated immediacy that Ichabod could appreciate, and he suspected his new friend did, as well. Thus, they "texted," and got to know one another in oddly intimate and vexingly modern ways. For example, the pirate was rather fond of taking pictures of his hook in the foreground with some ridiculous scenery in the background, as if some giant scythe were piercing a municipal trash removal vehicle, or circling around a group of attractive women like a lariat pulling in a herd of cattle. Ichabod felt he won the "old dude game of picture chicken," as Irving had once called it, when he sent over a rather clear, if he did say so himself, shot of the horseman, _sans_ _tête_ _._ Jones' "bloody buggering fuck!" response text had made Ichabod smirk with unmitigated _delight_.

"While my current issues with your technology are, indeed, centered around that pirate, I fear it is the phone itself that is the source of my current vexation. The—what did you call it?—iOS update? It is terrible. The phone here tells me I have a voice mail, and yet I am unable to retrieve it."

Miss Mills smiled and shook her head; she held her hand out, palm facing up. With a heavy, exaggerated sigh, he placed the thing in her capable hand. Swiping the screen with her thumb and punching in his password (she had figured out his pass code in less than three tries, but more fool he for selecting the year of his birth as the entryway to his phone's secrets), she concentrated on the soft glow of jumbled applications, her brow furrowing slightly with the same concentration she used when solving cases.

"There," she said after a few seconds, the line between her eyes fading and a small smile of triumph lighting her face. "Same as before, Crane. Seriously, it's not hard." She pressed another button and as if by magic, Jones' voice filled the small space between them.

"Crane, we're going out Saturday next, you and I. Emma needs to return to New York to take care of 'loose ends,' as she calls it, and she offered to drop me off in your part of the realm because I am apparently a terror when bored. What say we tear up that town of yours, maybe get into a fight? I'll bring my hook and you bring the apocalypse. Call or text me back if this sounds agreeable. There, is that it? How do I send this to his phone, now? Do I press a button, or does Siri do a thing, or—Emma, stop laughing at m—"

Miss Mills looked over at him with amusement. "Oh, you two are hanging out now?"

Ichabod merely harrumphed before primly taking his phone from her palm.

"Jones seems to find mocking my indignation at the travails of living in this century as his main form of entertainment."

"Well, maybe you can take him to the Fall Festival. You know, have a man date?"

"'Man date?'"

"Yeah, you know. Two dapper gents such as yourself hanging out, just the two of you. You can even hold hands. Or hooks." Ichabod had to check her face to ensure she was jesting, and the slight smile curling her lip confirmed that notion. Man date, indeed. That would mean that every time he spent time alone with her, the two of _them_ were on a date.

Fascinating, that.

Before he knew it, he was texting his ridiculous new friend with the salient information, mainly that he would be awaiting Miss Swan's bright yellow conveyance outside of the station at seven sharp, Saturday next.

He found that he felt an odd sense of anticipation of the event. Not that he missed the pirate, by any means; more like the opportunity to remove himself from the ridiculous situations in which he often found himself mired. Or, perhaps, the opportunity to discuss certain aspects of his life with a person who knew near nothing about it was something he had not had for some time. Near two hundred years, really.

**xxxxx**

"Wonderful to see you again, Sheriff," Ichabod murmured over Miss Swan's hand, brushing his lips lightly over her knuckles. He chuckled at her faint flush and outright guffawed at Jones shuffling over and swatting at him, blunt side of the hook hitting him in the forearm.

"All right, all right. We're all charmed, I'm sure." Jones leaned in and gave his sheriff a somewhat more intimate good-bye before the two of them found themselves waving farewell at the back end of her vehicle.

"Ready, boys?" The pair turned to regard the Lieutenant stepping out of the station, her skin seeming to glow impossibly brighter as she stepped into the night. "Heya, Captain."

"Miss Mills," Jones murmured; he presented himself in a not-quite-ostentatious show of courtly bowing, her small hand in his as he actually pressed his lips to her wrist. The rake had managed to turn her hand over in his palm, and if Ichabod didn't know any better, he would think the pirate was doing it to goad him! _Insufferable_.

"Jones," he intoned, his voice a warning. The scamp had the nerve to laugh before standing straight.

"Crane," he returned easily, spinning on one heel and looking up into Ichabod's stern countenance. "Let's get this show on the road, eh?" Jones assuredly marched off toward the parking lot despite the fact that he had no idea which vehicle was the Lieutenant's and worse, he was actually headed in the correct direction. _Navigation must come easily when one is a thrice-centuried pirate_ , Crane thought to himself.

After parking and pointing out that they had to buy tickets for each ride, Jones had dutifully stood in line, magnanimously offering to pay for the evening of revelry. How he got the ticket booth operator to accept his pirate treasure in payment, Ichabod was sure he did not know.

"I'll pick you boys up in two hours. Don't do anything..." Miss Mills trailed off, her eyes narrowing at the look of unabashed delight on Jones' face. "Right. If I get any calls about _him_ ," and she pointed her thumb at the pirate, "I'm tossing you both in lock-up, Crane."

"Lieutenant, I assure you. The Captain will not—"

"Yeah, don't make any promises you can't keep." She chucked her chin and when Ichabod turned to look, it was to regard his friend strutting off toward something called "Pirate Ship," and it certainly looked disreputable as far as entertainment went. Of _course_ Captain Hook would head there first. The morning after their bar fight, Ichabod had nursed his sore head and sorer knuckles with copious amounts of water and the JM Barrie novel in which Jones appeared. It was eye-opening, to say the least.

"Right. Until later, Miss Mills."

Shaking his head and seeking absolution with his eyes heavenward, Ichabod hastened after his erstwhile friend, wondering whether he would have to explain concepts such as "cotton candy" and possibly even "waiting in line," two things he had discovered while speaking with Siri about what, exactly, a modern carnival was all about.

It was going to be a long evening.

An hour into it and he found he was enjoying himself far more than he would have thought possible. As it turned out, Killian Jones was just as amusing as Ichabod remembered; he somehow managed to get everyone to allow them to the front of the line every time. He still was not certain how the man accomplished it, but he suspected it was a combination of winking at whomever was in front of them along with a whispered comment that often made the women flush and sometimes even the men, or commiserating with the convict-looking types who seemed to be in charge of ride operations (whomever thought _that_ a good idea ought to be ashamed).

Jones was carrying around a large stuffed bear that he had won by using a shabby rifle that turned out to shoot a stream of water rather than ammunition; how a man with one hand managed to best him at aiming and shooting a gun was beyond Crane, but he was determined to win the next round.

Unfortunately, he did not.

In indignation, he stomped away from Jones' unrestrained laughter as he traded in his bear for a much larger bear. Crane veered left, avoiding a group of women who seemed to eye both he and his pursuer with interest.

"What's the matter, darling? Don't like the prize I won for you?"

"Stifle it, Hook."

"Oh, it's Hook, now? Hullo, hullo, ladies," Hook said, affecting the innuendo-laced voice he saved for charming people like the snake he was. "Don't mind my friend here. Bit of a fight, but fear not; I'll make it up to him."

Ichabod stopped and pivoted a neat 180, smiling in satisfaction when Jones near collided into his chest. Since Ichabod had nearly three inches on the man, the effect was rather pleasing. He looked down on him and raised his sardonic eyebrow like a sail in good weather, with ease and surety of success in catching the wind.

"Are you bisexual, Jones?" He knew that would stop the pirate, and he was not wrong. The man raised his brow in kind and then slanted his jaw in thought as he eyed Ichabod up and down appraisingly.

"Pardon?"

"Do you enjoy both men and women?"

"That an invitation, mate?" Ichabod rolled his eyes and turned back around.

"Merely a request for information. This is not the first time you have flirted outrageously with me in front of people." Ichabod suddenly understood the full implication of Irving's "game of chicken," and he found that he wanted to win this round. He knew Jones had no romantic notions toward him nor he him, but the man seemed incapable of restraining himself. If the pirate were attempting to ruffle his feathers simply because he viewed Ichabod as—how did he put it? An uptight arse?— then two could play at that game.

"Ah, yes. Don't think you're the only man for me, Crane. I've been reliably informed that I flirt with anything with a face, and even then, it depends on my sobriety. And I do believe the correct term for what I am is a try-sexual," he laughed, burying his face into the head of his bear before continuing, he was so amused with himself. "You know, because I'll try—"

"Yes, yes," Crane said crisply. "Flattering as it is, I'm afraid you're not my type."

"Too bad, mate. Wouldn't be the first time, you know. It's lonely on a ship going for centuries without feminine companionship. There were times when I had to avail myself—"

"Jones—"

"Fear not, Crane," he said, laughing once again. "Good gods, your face! You're not my type, either. I have Emma, after all. And I couldn't _possibly_ be with a man as tall as you."

"Good lord, Jones. Do you take anything seriously?"

"I take that seriously, mate." Without Ichabod having realized it, they had stopped in front of a large wheel with seats on it, something he noticed before they had set foot on the carnival grounds. Of all the wonders the modern age had shown him thus far, the ability to conquer territories such as the sky and even space still astonished him whenever he was confronted with an edifice such as this. Tall buildings were one thing, but a structure devoted to traversing the sky for fun? Marvelous.

Then again, he did not find it so marvelous ten minutes later (again, Jones charmed a group of impressed fourteen-year-old boys into allowing "cutsies" by brandishing his hook and smile with equal aplomb). They were perched at the very top of the Ferris wheel which was no longer turning or even moving. A muffled announcement from below had announced that there was a technical malfunction of some sort, and Ichabod did not wish to hazard a guess on the safety of the machine nor the reliability of the engineers employed to fix such egregious errors in manufacturing.

"Confound it, Jones, do stop swinging your legs. You're like a child."

"Sticks and stones, mate." The man continued swinging his knees back and forth, his face a study in utter glee; he leaned his head as far back as was possible, making the carriage sway even more erratically.

A minute or so passed in silence, the night air growing chillier with each passing moment. Luckily, the two men were still in their frock coats and not yet affected by the turning of the weather or the night, although Ichabod thought he could detect Jones falter once or twice, reaching over to do up the buttons on his ridiculous shirt but stopping short due to Ichabod's initial comments about the "thick expanse of masculine posturing on display underneath that waistcoat." After fingering the buttons on his shirt once more, his hand continued its path and reached into one of the many pockets in his coat, pulling out the flask that always seemed to accompany his person.

"Care for some warmth, then?" He shook the flask enticingly at Ichabod, curling one corner of his mouth in wide invitation.

Ichabod eyed the flask, cocking his brow before tipping his head in a brief nod. Jones took a large swig before corking the bottle one-handed; without warning, he tossed it and grinned as Ichabod fumbled the catch.

"Honestly," he clucked, his usually deep voice sounding tinny, perhaps due to their distance from the ground and the wind occasionally whipping about their faces . "It's as if I were tasked with watching Miss Swan's young son, were he a scoundrel prone to mischief and thievery."

"You don't know the lad very well, then," Jones scoffed. As Ichabod took his own swig from the flask, Jones hit the bottom of it with the back of his hand, causing him to sputter and gulp far more than intended.

"This is not rum," he rasped, swiping at his mouth. He held the flask up and regarded it carefully. "Not exactly whiskey, either. Is it Irish?"

"Scotch, mate. Swan introduced me to it," Jones said, softly smiling in memory.

"Hmm. Excellent flavor. Were that we had some cigarillos to go along with it."

"Hmm." Jones tapped his finger on his bottom lip for a moment before reaching into his coat once more. He brought his hand out and pointed straight up into the night sky. "I might have something better."

Ichabod's eyebrow soared on high once again as Jones revealed a small, thin, paper-white object and produced it on his palm.

"What is that?"

"Not quite sure, mate," he said with a grin. Ichabod was not entirely certain he believed the man. "I'm told by a lovely woman named Ruby that it's __quite__ illegal, though."

"Really?" murmured Ichabod. "And your lady sheriff approves?"

"Not at all," Jones smiled.

"What if we were to be caught?"

"Mate, we're stuck up here for fuck-all knows how long. What else are we to do?"

"Aside from behave like small children and break the law?"

"Aye."

Ichabod sighed. "Nothing." He held out his hand, feeling slightly defeated. Jones handed him the thing, indicating he ought hold it between his thumb and first finger.

"What do I do with it?"

"Give 'er here," Jones sighed, taking it from Ichabod's somewhat awkward grip and then producing a book of matches from yet another pocket while flashing his most winning smile. Scratching the match head on the inner curve of his hook, he leaned in quick to catch the fire before the gusts bursting about their carriage took it for him. Inhaling long and deep, he held in the smoke, closing his eyes before lazily blowing out a steady plume of smoke over their heads, the swirls and tracks briefly blurring the few visible stars in the night sky. Finally passing it over, Jones corrected Ichabod's still awkward grip and urged him to "take a hit."

Feeling somewhat self-conscious, Ichabod raised the thin paper roll to his lips, the small twisted end seeming intimidating.

"Quit stalling, Crane."

"Shut it, Jones." Ichabod took a breath and placed the "joint" thing between his lips. Somewhat hesitantly he took a breath and immediately started coughing. It was like someone had lit a pine tree on fire inside his mouth, the sting and sweet-sticky pine smell infiltrating and burning the inside of his nose and lungs.

Jones patted his back hard and said in a sympathetic voice that Ichabod knew was disingenuous, "It gets better, mate. Try again."

Shrugging off the laughter in Jones' eyes, Ichabod shuffled his back to sit up straighter, making the carriage sway terrifically. He had utterly forgotten they were stuck mid-air. When he chanced a look over the side and felt a near-pleasant thrill go down his spine and settle in his bottom, he wondered if it was due to the height or the smoke.

Bracing himself this time, he again raised the joint to his lips and this time closed the aperture of his mouth to only allow a small amount of smoke to drift in. With that small measure of control, he was able to inhale a large ("Color me impressed, Crane!") stream of smoke into his lungs, counting to ten before blowing it out (and only coughing slightly this time around).

Passing the joint back and forth resulted in its rather quick consumption. To the shock of neither of them, Jones produced another one from his labyrinthine coat.

They savored the second one; Ichabod watched as the smoke drifted down and he drifted down, the lights of the small town carnival blurring, the noises below muted. Then the pirate began to laugh as he looked on in the distance.

"Pray tell, Jones. What is so funny?"

He passed the joint over, indicating with a nod of his head for Crane to have a go.

"Everything. Nothing."

A multitude of time passed in silent contemplation of the stars and the heady feeling of sweet dizziness emptying Ichabod's mind. Of course, Jones had to tarnish the silence by opening his mouth.

"So, what's up with you and Lieutenant Mills?"

"What's _up_?"

"Embrace the lingo, Crane."

"I will not."

"She's a firecracker, that one."

"Indeed."

"Fierce like my Emma, and equally as beautiful."

"Mm."

"I do like a woman in charge."

"Imagine my surprise."

"Don't be so uptight, mate. I've seen the way you regard the lass, and don't tell me it's because you respect her."

"You are squandering that marijuana cigarette, Killian."

"Killian, even! We need to get you baked more often."

"Baked?"

"Aye. Because your mind rises to the heavens like bread, savvy?"

"Really?"

"I've no idea, I just made that up. But I'm quite reliably informed that this feeling is called 'baked' or 'stoned'. Or 'lit,' or 'fuckin' high.' They're all so delightful that I an unable to choose just one." Jones grinned as he handed the pinched joint back to Ichabod, his mouth wide and lazy. He leaned back again, stretching his legs out over the edge of the carriage in which they sat.

Ichabod did the same, their legs dangling, making the seat sway and rock and making his head swirl most delightfully. Wonderful stuff, that marijuana.

There was a distant whirring followed immediately by a thrumming that jostled the metal bar and seat underneath them. It would seem that the Ferris wheel was again in operation.

"I have to say, I'm sorry to see this ride end so soon." Crane goggled at his friend, the sharp movement of his head taking a moment to catch up with his drug-blurred mind.

"Soon? Have we not been up here for hours?"

"Fifteen minutes at the most, I'm afraid. Side effect when you procure weed of this strength and grade, so I'm told. The passage of time seems endless, which is ironic for us."

"How's that?"

"What, we men out of time?" Jones turned fully, plucking the last bit of the joint from Ichabod's fingers. He sucked on it one last time before flicking it out to the side; they both watched the smoking ember as it arced high, the glow fading as it fell to the ground. "I'm sure there's a beautiful metaphor for us in there somewhere, mate. But what would I know? I'm just a pirate." The ride finally stopped and the felon manning the lever stepped forward to let them out.

He murmured something to Jones and Crane could swear he saw the flash of gold coins flicker into the man's palm.

"Sorry about the breakdown," the bearded, filthy fellow said dutifully, his gravelly voice sounding like it belonged, well—on a pirate ship.

Ichabod's eyes narrowed as he considered just what else his friend would do to get him to step outside the confines of normalcy. Bribing a criminal so they could smoke illegally obtained cigarettes? Ichabod didn't know why he was surprised in the slightest.

Jones turned and winked at him before strutting away, and Ichabod merely shook his head fondly. If the pirate didn't see the large grin overtake his countenance, it was just as well.

**Author's Note:**

> did i seriously write a fic about captain hook and ichabod crane smoking pot on a ferris wheel like what am i even doing
> 
> i wasn't lying when i said i wanna write about these two forever. thank you to captainsasschabod for the ferris wheel idea, i totally needed a prompt. if you find yourself in dire need of me writing these two idiots in a specific situation, feel free to let me know; i'm sure i could use the prompt. you can find me on tumblr (this-too-too-sullied-flesh).


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